And If the Heavens Rage
by TheLadyMuse
Summary: Yuri has a problem... no solutions on the horizon, either. Angsty Yurio because Y/Y/V, but not as a ship. Post canon.


Yuri knew, all along, that he loved two men he shouldn't. The idea of not competing against either had made him want to scream and hurl everything in reach. At the Grand Prix where he took gold, even as he watched Yuuri and Victor exchange gooey eyes, he knew.

His heart was broken.

If he'd ever been in heaven, he'd fallen.

He was still crawling out of hell.

He wasn't an idiot. They had eyes only for each other, he was young (but not unaware) and neither would want anything to with him if ever he voiced his desires.

Perhaps he should have been disgusted with himself. When Yuuri showed up at the banquet, a little after Victor, Yuri probably should have felt s _omething_ over knowing that the long, simple coat Yuuri was wearing in place of a suit jacket was actually a knee length haori.

Yuuri looked like a modern warlord, silver tie resting against the chest of a black collared shirt, the hem of his haori lapping at the backs of his knees. The wolf tail he'd pulled his hair into completed the look, the absence of his glasses the crowning glory as they gave one an unobscured view of Katsuki's eyes.

Victor just about fainted when Yuuri leaned against the door frame and shook his head, muttering about his 'Aibou'. After that, Yuuri was the talk of the party, the way he bluntly explained that the haori was a piece of clothing traditional in Japan.

Yuri couldn't bring himself to feel disgust. What was there to be ashamed of? He was a healthy male, attracted to physically fit men he trusted. But he kept it secret, easing off the vitriol until everyone believed he'd matured by seventeen.

Old enough to have a space of his own, even if people would insist on visiting.

His flat was a modest two bedroom, one outfitted as a bedroom, the other as a sort of study, framed posters of his rivals, Victor and Yuuri, his friend, Otabek, and certain other competitors hung carefully. Other than the posters and the yoga paraphernalia, the study was bare.

Yuri preferred utilitarian spaces. That was why his journals and pens were usually scattered over the table. His file boxes were stored against the wall, each open to receive either the finished journal or completed file. He recorded everything, old program notes, photographs and DVDs neatly packed into the appropriate box.

Except the trunk that sat at the foot of his bed. His most sentimental possessions went into the metal-lined box. A few special photographs, the yukata Yuuko had forced him into for the festival he'd attended while in Hasetsu just before moving to the flat, his Agape costume, vintage Yuuri and Victor posters, a scarf from Otabek. The neatly filled out cards Dedushka mailed him every year for his birthday were tucked into a folder in chronological order.

Nothing monetarily priceless, but for a boy with little family and few friends, they meant the world.

Now, Yuri was a person of routine. Mostly because settling into a routine had ensured everything that needed to get done would get done.

Part of that routine was going for a run.

Alas, that is where Yuri's careful tending of his secrets would unravel. For, unlike some, the young skater liked to feel the energy pulsing in the pavement verses the lethargy of the treadmill.

Because although Yuri Plisetsky being hospitalized for a concussion and broken wrist after nearly being run over were big news… And it wasn't personal.

Not until someone offered to get a few things to make Yuri's stay more comfortable. That someone was the oh-so-extra Victor Nikiforov. What he saw that day shocked him to the core. Normally, visiting Yuri's flat was a planned thing, and the younger skater had filed his journals, closed the boxes and firmly shut the doors to his bedroom and study. It never looked _lived in,_ to Victor.

It did today. A leather journal was open on the table, a legal pad rested on the keyboard of an older laptop with a disk drive, each with a pen atop the paper. Curious, Victor glanced over the pages, noting that everything was written in Arabic characters, but the words themselves appeared to be a mishmash of Russian and Japanese. Going into the bedroom yielded a room with a bed, organized closet, and a straight backed chair next to the door. Low tables on either end of the bed either held a lamp or alarm clock, a phone charging station on the right hand side.

But that wasn't what caught Victor's attention. First, the green yukata draped over the chair by the door, and then the open trunk at the foot of Yuri's bed did. Drawing in a surprised breath, Victor studied the contents, feeling a little ashamed of his spying, but relishing the chance to find out what had made Yuri withdraw into himself.

On a whim, the champion peeked into the study to find the faces of friends and rivals peering down at him. His own photograph was hung between Yuuri and Otabek, with Chris' beneath him and a group one of them and their rinkmates above it. Alongside a startlingly beautiful picture of Yuuri was a picture of a brightly laughing Phichit Chulanont.

Nice as it was to have his suspicions confirmed that Yuri did care, something niggled at Victor. It was a nice place, but hardly a home. The only personal thing was the photos in the study, mostly publicity shots taken professionally.

Why wasn't there evidence of anyone else? Any kind of visitor? Why was Yuri Plisetsky, Russia's favourite, most adored son, living the life of a sentimental ascetic? Like a hermit? Where had all the cat things gone?

Victor badly wanted to poke around further and find out why.

But that would have to wait. Yuri needed things, had asked for the things on his table to be swept into a bag and for the old t-shirt on the chair so he had something to sleep in.

Carefully, Victor packed away what Yuri had asked for and returned to the hospital, wincing when he realized even more people were gathered around than before, but asking before he lost his nerve

"What's with your apartment, Yurio?" Yuri, busy rifling the contents of the bag, snorted before jerking off the hospital gown and pulling the sleeveless, faded black tee over his head.

"What do mean, Old Man?" With everyone's eyes on him, Victor said pointedly

"There's nothing beyond your necessities, if you include your journals for that, except the photos in the study and the trunk in your bedroom." Yuri sighed, looking at him wearily, before pulling out the laptop, shrugging as he said

"I have simple needs, and no one to share my life with, Victor. And before anyone starts setting up dates," He stated, before razoring his voice as he looked around, meeting bewildered eyes with a gravitas that honestly alarmed Victor

"I don't want to date. Aside from focusing on my career, I have several projects that need attention."

Yuri shuts down after that, refusing to look up from his laptop.

So they didn't know, they hadn't found out.

Yuri still needed to leave. Maybe the heavens would rage, but no merciful god would deny him a little time to lick his wounds.


End file.
